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She throws back her glass. "
That really doesn't work with diet coke."
"Or orange juice." I finish my last sip. Drop it on the counter. Tap my toes together. The stool at the bar is perfect. Especially since there's no booze tonight. This is one of those clubs that does all-ages once a week.
Tonight is the night.
Eighties night.
Thank God for that.
Ice clinks as Leighton tilts her glass from one side to the other. She looks at me. Presses her plum lips together. Tries to think up something to say besides Walker is an idiot, huh—we covered every ugly detail on the drive here. And the walk to the club. And for our first round of mocktails.
He is.
But I'm tired of thinking about that.
Of waiting for him.
Of staring at my blank cell phone screen, wondering when he's going to finally call.
I have to life my life. Even if there's a gaping hole in my heart.
"You're thinking about him again," she says.
My nod is reluctant.
"What about?"
"Everything."
"Hmm."
"Is he as miserable as I am?"
"Worse. No. You're pretty bad." She slides off her stool. "But it's less sympathetic on him."
"I'm the one who fucked up."
"No. I've heard this from both of you. Well, more from you, because he's all sulking I don't talk about my feelings, that's for girls about it. But I know enough. This is on him too." She offers her hand. "Come on. Let's dance. You'll feel better."
"I'll feel better if he forgives me."
"True. But I can't help with that."
I laugh. "Don't make me repeat the serenity prayer."
"You don't like that stuff?"
I shake my head. "Feels like I'm reciting from a poster."
"'Cause you are." She motions come on.
But I stay on my stool. "The other night, I asked him to tell me it wasn't the last time."
"And?"
"He said he couldn't." I draw circles on my glass. Orange juice isn't enough. I need to obliterate my thoughts. To chase away all this agony. Just for tonight. Just one time. Just a little—
